


Forgive me for being personal

by imladrissun



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-19 02:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imladrissun/pseuds/imladrissun
Summary: Hastings embarks on a great friendship, and begins to realize how much he values him--and is valued in return.





	1. Chapter 1

Poirot was an interesting sort of man. After meeting him at Styles again, Hastings had found himself called upon quite often. Poirot had the habit of requesting his assistance with quite a number of things. While he often claimed that they were for cases, he had a feeling after a while that that simply wasn't true.

Poirot often said that he needed his assistance to 'deal with the English salespeople', as he was still furnishing his apartment. Hastings himself prefered to stay in London while in the country, but in a plain little apartment. 

It wasn't that he didn't have money, it was that it was so gauche to use it, he thought, after all that had happened. After the war, he'd felt a bit detached from everything, and really, until meeting Poirot again, he hadn't even considered the finer things in life.

While his sister was still at home, back at the family estate in the north east, he didn't want to go visit it. His parents had died while he was in the War, and his sister had written that she'd taken care of everything. She kept his bank account quite topped up, as he was indeed the heir of the estate, but he prefered it in someone else's hands. He wanted to just be alone; to be free.

In a terrible way, he secretly felt relief at the thought of not having to go to their funerals. They'd died in a car accident, but that oddly hadn't destroyed Hastings' desire to get a car of his own, sometime. He just hadn't got around to it yet. 

Poirot kept summoning him though, with little missives in the post, so he kept showing up. He'd just been lounging in his little apartment, quietly reading the newspapers. 

He also had a taste for detective stories, but he could hardly tell Poirot that. The man seemed obsessed with showing off his 'powers of the mind', or ratiocination, as he remembered from Dupin. 

At some point, Hastings realized he was including him during client interviews, which seemed a bit much. But he didn't say anything. Poirot's English seemed rather good, really, but he almost seemed to like speaking in French, or strange English, and having Hastings try to think of the appropriate English phrase. 

He ate rather oddly, all precise, but seemed to be willing to indulge Hastings' preference for actual tea done the right way. He assumed Poirot would leave off calling for him after he realized he wasn't very good at finding clues, solving things, or figuring things out, but it didn't happen. 

He didn't quite understand it, since Poirot seemed to have a very many intellectual acquaintances. And yet, he called upon him all the time! Hastings couldn't understand it. At first he supposed it was that he wanted an audience, but Poirot was always asking what he thought of cases, and people. 

Poirot seemed to have a very hard time walking, quite a bit, really, and Hastings didn't mind helping him get along--it made him wonder if he needed a convenient arm to lean on. He used his cane almost constantly. 

He did have a few flaws: he didn't like cricket, and he drank these odd little drinks, either cordials of some kind or tisanes. All of it was not something Hastings himself would prefer.

Of course, there were times when it was indeed handy to have him around, even Hastings could see--there were a lot of lower class bigots who didn't want to talk to Poirot, but would acquiesce to Hastings instead. And indeed, a lot of upper class ones as well. Hastings had been at Eton, so he was used to the type.

Before the War, he had taken a few random jobs just to make himself useful, but afterwards he just languished in quiet silence, reading his papers. He didn't do much of anything; he didn't go out, he barely could bring himself to eat anything. 

After Poirot began to call on him so often, he insisted they eat together. He would even cook himself, which Hastings liked the most. In those early days, he didn't like to go out very much. It was tiring. 

Being at Poirot's was so relaxing, somehow. At first, he'd been more proper with Poirot, but really he felt too grey and tired after all that had happened. He just kind of floated along into whatever Poirot wanted to do. Once in a while, after he'd been too sharp with his remarks, Poirot seemed to be apologetic in manner. 

He'd make Hastings' favorite little tea time spread and ask him about some sporting thing going on--Hastings had no doubt that he'd had to actually deliberately check the sports pages to find something to mention. He did appreciate it, though. And really, Hastings didn't mind a few testy words. 

It was much less upsetting than hearing sharp words in a trench, worried about everything all the time. It was positively languid comparatively.


	2. Chapter 2

Poirot was very particular about what went in his apartments. He chose each piece in a unique fashion, requiring Hastings' opinion at each step. It took a very long time, even if you didn't count how slowly Poirot got around with his cane. Hastings had never asked about his difficulty walking. 

For some reason, Poirot insisted that he had to look at each piece he was considering many, many times. And then he had to discuss it, first with Hastings while out, then with the proprieter, and again with Hastings back at home. He wasn't a rusher through anything, that was for sure. 

Hastings found himself being invited to stay over, after their late dinners. At first he said no, as it seemed like it would require too much focus and energy to stay. Going back to his little flat was so much easier; it was dead silent, empty-ish, and weirdly, the smallness of it made him feel safe. No one would find him there; he was perfectly hidden away from the world and its demands and horrors. 

He had begun helping Poirot handle his correspondence, but the man had made noises about getting a real secretary. 

It made him a bit melancholy around the edges to think of Poirot not having a reason to call for him anymore. Even though he was very strange, in his way, I think I'd quite miss him, if he were gone from my life, he thought. One thing he couldn't fathom is Poirot's way of needing to have everything perfect, and also perfectly straight. He'd move things around, arrange them differently, even fix his tie. 

He did that all the time, actually. It became as common a routine as listening to the shipping forecast music at night on the radio; he liked to go to sleep to it. It was silly, but he hoped it had some way of calming his nerves.


	3. Chapter 3

Slowly, Hastings finds the world comes back into color. He notices small, nice things. Just everyday moments that are immeasurably pleasant. A sweet, multicolor pansy flower in the park, or a cute child in a little frock as he walks by the pond. 

He also notices how over the top Poirot is in many aspects of his life: cleaning, food, arrangement of things, dressing, his voluminous stamp collection, particular drinks, everything being spotless, and having a routine. He loves his tisane, but Hastings doesn't care for it. 

It's almost as if he's the mirror image of--no, that's not it. There's some word for it, but he can't remember it. Poirot's just his opposite, in so many ways. Where Hastings retreated into a greyish world of quiet, aloneness, and simplicity, Poirot throws himself forward into everything, no matter what it is. He has an opinion on everything. 

Half the time Hastings can barely muster up an opinion on golf, he's sorry to say. He's just tired, now that his memories of the War are fading a bit for the first time. He also has a hard time eating, which makes Poirot fuss endlessly over him. 

Thankfully, Poirot's into eating tiny French-style food, it seems. That makes Hastings' task much easier. Somehow, it's so hard to choke anything down, which seems to be disrespectful all the same. 

For a while, it escapes him, how blunt he is with Poirot most of the time. He doesn't have the energy to pretend at anything; often, he simply says straight out that he doesn't like different things, like creme de menthe.

Poirot never really seems offended, he just suggests something else he might prefer. And so Hastings gets his tea, his toast and mysteriously, some sporting papers. Poirot seems to have The Sporting Life coming to his door, which Hastings takes an embarassingly long time to even notice--the incongruity, that is.

Eventually he realizes how Poirot does seem to mother him a little, but he's ashamed to say he kind of likes it. He's not too much older, but he acts like an old man in some ways. Although, to his credit, he has much more energy than Hastings. He still likes to take a siesta, some days.

Poirot bustles around his apartment while he does, after insisting he lay down in the guest bedroom. He barely protests at Hastings keeping the windows open; Poirot keeps his rooms incredibly warm. 

Well, he protests, but it's more in his usual vein than in a serious tone. Sometimes, he does stay over. Just once in a while, if he feels up to it. It turns out he can't sleep half the time anyway, but Poirot always seems to divine this and have him lay on the sitting room couch while he builds card houses on the coffee table. 

He says it's to help his mind work out whatever that snag in his latest case is, but Hastings only realizes years later that that might not have been his actual motive. 

"I say," he exclaimed over breakfast, "I really must apologize, Poirot. Here I am, all in your rooms. I hadn't realized." And it was true, he'd ended up loitering around Poirot's establishment for three days now. 

Poirot looked up over his paper, tsked at him, and took off his prince-nez. "Non, mon ami. It has been very good. And think, how you assist me with the cases. I need the benefit of hearing your perspective. It is very much helpful to me."

"Oh," he said, rather surprised. "I see." Hastings hadn't really thought Poirot got anything out of it; he kind of worried, vaguely, that he was this tall annoyance in the background of Poirot's life. But the man himself never really said anything like that. It was a hard thought to shake. 

Poirot ate his little cracker things, and Hastings made himself dry toast and ate it with tea. It was his favorite, always had been. He could just about muster up the fortitude to eat a whole two pieces of toast. 

Poirot had tried to insist he have cocoa in the morning with it, but he couldn't do it. Sweet things turned his stomach, both the taste and the idea of it. 

You'd think he'd get bored, just laying on Poirot's sofa half the time, but he didn't. The man himself always seemed busy, with his endless correspondence, with doling out suggestions to Inspector Japp, with informing Hastings of his opinions on every topic under the sun. 

Poirot really did like to talk. He was the type of thinker who wanted an audience; and as long as Hastings didn't have to make up his own hour long lectures, he was happy to listen. Being around Poirot was just so peaceful, and he was very non-demanding--except in terms of Hastings working his mind to the solution of a case, which he found amusing. 

Poirot seemed to forget that it wasn't Hastings that had claimed he was an expert at that sort of thing. But then, he didn't mind. Poirot's pomposity was strangely charming at times, and hilarious at others, especially when he acted that way to just Hastings alone. He didn't think of himself as much of a crowd to brag to, being very average himself, but apparently Poirot saw something he didn't. 

Just the sight of him was reassuring, he was so himself, so particular. It kind of jolted Hastings out of whatever general malaise thoughts had descended upon him; he couldn't imagine Poirot at the same time as thinking about the War. He found himself just silently observing his friend while he was ostensibly reading the sports papers on the sofa. He was always the same, no matter what.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Poirot did have a few things that were hard to take, he thought. He had the strange idea that you could just embrace people effusively, in public even, which was not really done in London. Maybe on the Continent that was alright, but at home one shuddered to think of that much open emotionalness just getting all over everywhere. 

That wasn't to say that they both didn't get drunk at home and wind up blathering on in Poirot's living room. Well, it was more like an office, in a way, but it was a nice room in any case. Hastings would give Poirot the sofa as a matter of course, as he was rather greivously injured or something. He limped terribly, and often needed to sit down and take a break if they went for a walk through the park. 

So Hastings often wound up stretched out on the rug [he prefered giving his legs some room, it was more comfortable for his knees or something, he just liked it], sitting on the floor beside Poirot, who was slumped on the couch. Apparently sirop de cassis could do that to you, who'd have known. Hastings had more usual stuff, like brandy. He usually left off on the sherry, though; he knew he wasn't eating enough to sop it all up anyway. 

Poirot had no such problems. He loved food, it seemed, and while he didn't get soused, he was definitely enjoying himself. And if Hastings fell asleep to a blanket tossed on him, that was fine. 

He absolutely was too asleep to notice the loosening of his tie and gentle smoothing back of his hair, [which was fine, because he was just putting a pillow under his head.] It was all fine. 

Hastings was pleased to find that Poirot never mentioned it. He could only take so much emotional expression at a time. While his friend did often criticize the English way as being too repressed, rigid, cold and allergic to the emotions, Hastings was happy with it. Deviations from the norm were something to be avoided.


	5. Chapter 5

Poirot seemed to have enough personality for seven people, really. Hastings usually felt as if he were only half-there, in reality, that is, at any given time. He kind of envied how stalwart Poirot was in his opinions, how sure of everything he seemed. 

And he always was so certain. It was such a balm, in some nebulous way, even though Hastings would admit it didn't make much sense. While fighting, he'd had to be in charge; it had weighed heavily on him. All those deaths, the horrible mud, and some of those boys had been ones under his command. That had been the hardest to take. 

After he'd been invalided out, he'd found their mothers and told them himself, it was the honorable thing to do. Of course, many of them had screamed at him, and there had been a few thrown pieces of china. He hadn't taken it personally, but in those moments, it had seemed like some part of his own conscience telling him he was guilty, and should pay. 

He tried to put it aside, but it was difficult. Being able to focus on Poirot seemed like a perfect distraction, he had to admit. At first he had done it unconsciously, but he'd begun to realize things. 

He'd never noticed how Poirot looked at him, it wasn't even subtle. It wasn't patronizing, it was more the way you'd love a naive child. Hastings wasn't annoyed by it, but he was a little put off that that was how he kind of thought of him. 

I mean, really, he'd only been a literal officer in an actual war. He didn't need Poirot's indulgent kindness; he was not a boy. 

It almost made him feel uncomfortable, because he didn't want that, but he didn't know what he did want, really. 

And so he kind of retreated into his previous grey life; unfortunately, he found it kind of boring. Hastings did what any self-respecting, confused Englishman would do--he got on a ship and got out of the country. He needed time to think, to reflect, free of his usual surroundings. It would be too easy to just go along with everything, swept up in Poirot's more commanding, powerful manner. 

And Poirot had a way of being able to tell what he was thinking, which was usually fine, as he had nothing to hide, but he wanted to examine things himself for a change. He had kind of let Poirot steer the boat of life, without considering the ramifications of it. 

Technically he traveled all the time [both abroad and domestically], obstensibly for 'fun' but mostly because he just had to get out of London and the crush of people. He wanted space. Poirot probably wouldn't think anything of one more trip.

He sent off a quick note to him, of course, but paid the boy who sent it extra to wait until a certain time. That way he didn't have to worry about anyone asking after him. He could just get out. 

Hastings was also well aware that this was his modus operandi. He did love to travel, but he also loved to run away from his problems. 

Just the other day he'd met up with a few fellows he'd served with, most of whom had relationships that had been ruined by the War. They hadn't come back the same people that had left. It had made him realize he needed to take stock of his life and decide where things were going. 

He took a little trip down to all those South American pyramids, and took a look. They were quite interesting, actually. Hastings had studied more Greek, Latin and cuneiform than Mayan things, but he liked it. Their type of hieroglyphs were very unique; little pictures that seemed somehow more expressive than Egyptian ones. 

The other people visiting the structures were less enthused than he was: the two Germans didn't care for the heat, the three Americans couldn't stand the bugs, and the other Brit was convinced he was getting a rare tropical disease. Hastings let their nonsense just wash over him. 

Weirdly, he felt safe in the darkness of the rain forest trees. Even in the sun, walking past the giant stone ball courts [they must have used cricket bats, he thought, the archeologists just haven't found them yet], he could reflect at ease. 

He came up with a few uncomfortable truths--he wanted to go home, for starters, just because of Poirot. The man had quite the phobia of being alone for more than a few days, in terms of wanting conversation. If Hastings wasn't available, he went out, just to get his social fix. 

Hastings did like how they spent so much time together, but he wanted there to be more. More what, he wasn't quite sure. He also had to come clean about his stories. 

While he wasn't Madame Oliver, he did write some little stories; one of his old school friends was in publishing. Of course, his scribbles were probably much too silly for people like Poirot to ever notice or know about. They were mushy and languid, as some of the reviewers said [and published as short stories in ladies magazines]. They also sold very briskly.

He wrote them under a female penname, because they were more romance-ish than anything else. He'd started writing little things at school, and had spent time at Styles starting up again, in the absence of anything else to do. 

Of course, it was quite hush hush, and he never said anything to Poirot about it. He only wrote them once in a while, anyway. They were just nice ideas, a happy scenario where nothing bad ever happened. A happy place, really--and wasn't that just how he thought of Poirot's flat. 

It was, he realized, and decided he'd thought enough. He'd always love South America, [he'd been before and was sure he'd return] but his little journey had been enough to clear his head. He could go home. 

He wanted his life to be like his little story, he knew. And oddly enough, he wanted Poirot to take the role of the person who was more emotional. While in his tales that was always a woman, Poirot was loving enough to equal any girl in spirit. It wasn't very usual, but Hastings was willing to put that aside--I mean, Poirot wasn't even English, so he couldn't be expected to conform to another culture. 

He'd have to get Poirot's take on the whole idea, of a chap being close with another one -- even though they weren't in school anymore [it was rampant there, but he'd thought people didn't really do that after you were young]. He felt strangely calm about it; Poirot would either take to it, or say 'pah' and condemn it as some crazy English nonsense. Either way, he didn't think he'd toss him off as a friend. 

Poirot seemed willing to forgive him anything, he felt safe in their mutual understanding, whatever it was. He wasn't sure what lingo would really define it, and didn't care. 

Admittedly, it might all end up to just saying he liked him best, really. Hastings had noticed how Poirot was a bit of a prude, in a way. He was very Puritan, or Catholic, whichever, about things. He didn't seem very open to touch outside formality. That would be okay, if it came to that. Hastings was happy to take, cherish and treasure any love that happened into his life, even if it was very un-touchy and foreign.


	6. Chapter 6

Poirot was very happy to see him -- he was knee deep in a case about some missing sapphires, and he and Japp disagreed on who was the top suspect. Hastings settled in and watched. He also assisted, at length, with trailing after Poirot as he investigated. 

Poirot had a certain way of bustling about that seemed quite busy; it dispelled your noticing of how slow he was at walking. He made Hastings dinner that first day, [very nice, more British than anything, to his surprise] and chattered away on the case. 

Hastings observed him, and it felt like it was for the first time. For all that Poirot was fastidious and particular, he was a very solid person. Strong, in his own way, and often decisive in gesture; with his arms in particular. 

He was quite fast friends with Madame Oliver, and one stray comment of his made Poirot comment that, "The two of us, we are both in solidarity of loneliness."

It wasn't something Hastings had been expecting to hear, and he didn't much like it, either. The phrase stuck in his head, even weeks later. He resolved to do something about it. 

Poirot had quite a bit of money himself, but most assuredly did not like to dole it out himself; he often looked to Hastings to hand out the shillings. Poirot had a touch of the aristo behavior about him, but it was more put on than not, in his opinion. Hastings had heard him reminisce about his childhood in Belgium--he was pretty sure he was more of a middle classer, really. 

Hastings didn't care about class too much, he'd had a rather distant family; status and money didn't get you love, it turned out. Poirot's childhood had sounded quite nice, it had made him wistful, if not a little bit jealous. 

Poirot also had a habit of hustling him along from whatever lovely girl he was watching go by--something Hastings had begun to reevaluate. He had thought it was the Catholic in his friend coming out, but it could be something else. 

He was very protective of Hastings, something he appreciated. He felt that way about Poirot, as well, especially since he'd heard people remark on his friend's lack of womanly company. Many men had women they saw, or were rumored to see, either properly or improperly, as it were. Poirot had neither, and people noticed. 

When asked directly, Hastings said he couldn't comment, but obliquely implied he had some foreign girl. He left it unsaid, whether it was a girl too poor to be appropriate, or too wealthy and married to be either. People usually nodded sagely at this, but he didn't like the suspicion cast on his friend. 

Of course, at Poirot's level of wealth and clientage, he was safe-ish, but also, the whole thing made Hastings recoil. He couldn't imagine Poirot with another man; a woman, fine. He could make 'the allowances', as Poirot might say. 

He'd waited after he'd returned from his latest trip, assuming Poirot would just understand how he felt and give his verdict, but nothing happened. He had to admit that Poirot was apparently much less perceptive than he'd thought. At least when it came to someone feeling a softer emotion for himself. 

Hastings had kind of assumed his friend would take over, that he'd say what had to be said, direct everything and there you go. It would be easy. 

Unfortunately, it looked like he'd have to take the lead.


	7. Chapter 7

Poirot was often called a 'funny little man' by people, and he was sometimes very particular and fastidious, but more often than not he was quiet. Solemn, almost. Which seems odd, because whenever he's off by himself, everything is always boring. If Hastings travels, goes out, goes to the shops, or does anything by himself, nothing ever happens. It's then that he realizes how different his life is, since he spends most of it with Poirot. 

Hastings has gotten used to hearing him ruminate all the time, and he's gotten used to the company. And the random murders that often seem to pop up. It feels a little lonely to be by himself.

He's also got a way of not seeming 'little' at all. It's his presence, or something, he's got it in spades. It's either confidence or something else, some sense of certainty and propriety that hovers around him like an aura. 

Poirot gets a secretary eventually, a lady called Miss Lemon, but she's a good one. He can tell she appreciates Poirot as much as he does, and he approves. She seems to have a complex life of book clubs and other women's groups or something; Poirot just kind of gives him a half-amused look when he wonders aloud about her. And yes, he knows he's supposed to do something about feeling some unnamed feelings for his friend, but he just never gets around to it. He tries to be stern with himself, but it doesn't work.

And isn't the routine nice, anyway? Poirot seems to love following them, and anyway it just never seems to be the right time to introduce such a loaded topic, or even hint at it. 

All up until he gets hurt. It turns out some people realize they might be caught for murder when Poirot goes around investigating, and one of them gets him with an iron pipe. They come from behind, so really he just finds himself in the hospital, feeling terrible. And confused from the drugs he's on. His bed is oddly propped up a little, so he feels like he's half sitting up.

The room is very dark, but he knows Poirot is there--or at least something of his is. He has a very oriental, deep cologne that he uses just a drop of, but in the sterile room Hastings notices it easily. It doesn't even occur to him to say something; he just watches his friend read his book in the early morning. He doesn't realize it's a bible.

Well, it feels like it's early, it's too dark to tell inside. Eventually, his friend looks up and startles. He hoists himself up out of his chair and half sits on the cot he's laying on. Quite unexpectedly, Poirot sort of strokes his hair, looking at him in a soft way, and then just lays his head down on his shoulder. 

His hair smells just barely of pomade. "Hello, there," Hastings says, finally. His voice sounds terrible and creaky.

But Poirot doesn't really say anything at all. Not even when they let him go home, and nobody questions that he's going to stay in Poirot's extra bedroom. Hastings finally breaks the ice by refusing to eat the weirdly mushy foods that Poirot has apparently decided are good for someone who's been smacked in the head. 

"This is too much," he exclaimed, upon seeing the tray of little bowls of peas, applesauce, and rice pudding that he's expected to eat. "Poirot, can't I have some toast? I mean really."

Poirot just looks at him from his chair beside the bed for a long minute. "Never have I spoken to le bon Dieu before like that. If the doctor says, this is for you, voila, it is for you."

"... Was it bad?" he asked. But Poirot had already moved on to another topic. 

"I have not answered you for a long time. but now, yes. Wasting time was the wrong, there." He took Hastings' left hand into his own; his hand seemed incongruously stronger than his own longer, more slender one. "We will do this; emotion speaks--"

Hastings frowned. "I'm not sure I'd be very good at talking about this type of thing," gesturing a little with the hand Poirot was currently crushing in his own. He'd quite got the idea. There was no need to get all in the soup with it. 

"Can't we just skip ahead and be there? Already embarked and all that?" he added, hopefully. Hastings had never been good at talking about his feelings--not to his mother, not to his nurse [though really she should have gone first, as he'd spent more time with her than the other], or to his siblings, his batman in the War, or his fellow soldiers. Or ladies, either. 

He was quite certain he wouldn't be any better at it if the subject in question was French-speaking but actually Belgian, a genius, older, and a Continental at that. 

"Indeed, for you," Poirot agrees easily, clearly amused by him. Hastings does not mind at all. "Very practical, you are so very English, mon ami."

"Thank you," Hastings said, but too soon--Poirot then added cheerfully, "But non, no toast for you." Well, you win some, you lose some, he thought.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this story, I forgot to add a note on the chronology--I hate to think of Poirot being so sad and wistful in old age, and would prefer if he'd learned what would happen with him and the Countess much earlier on. I like to imagine a happier life for him, with not only duty alone. I think that how the Countess acts and speaks at the end of the penultimate episode show that she is too willing to let true evil action be excused, while to Poirot this is inexcusable. To that end, I feel they could never have been truly compatible. 
> 
> This is just my opinion of course lol, but I wanted to give some context for what I am referencing.

Poirot didn't really change much of anything, despite seeming to be all onboard with their whatever it was--emotionally speaking. During the day, he worked: answered letters, took calls, saw clients, evalutated possible cases, investigated, was out and about sometimes. 

But at night, he came in to see Hastings, who was indeed still there, bound by doctor's orders to rest. Of course, when he went out and such, he did pop in to say bye, but it was very formal. Poirot was a formal kind of person, he reflected. He didn't do casual very well. 

At night, they would talk about his cases, and sometimes he would say what he imagined Hastings himself to think and speak if he had been there. It was very amusing. But that was it, he just touched his arm, kind of. 

To be frank, Hastings got kind of bored, just having to read all day. At least he had the wireless, but he didn't want to play it too loud in case Poirot had someone come in, or Miss Lemon had a call. It might have been that her presence made Poirot reticent to act, but really he was no different at night, when she'd gone. 

The days passed, it turned into winter. Poirot hated the cold; he loathed to go out in it, and frowned at it through the windows. Hastings wondered why he had such an aversion, but assumed it was because of an old injury. While he himself had just been invalided out permanently after being shot in the upper chest, he had eventually recovered to full health. 

Poirot had clearly never healed from whatever injuries he had. He was very poor at walking, ran in a weird shuffle, and limped terribly. He really had to have his cane all the time, but seemed to attempt going without it at different times out of vanity or something. Sometimes Hastings had made excuses at those moments, gone out of the room, and went to fetch it for him [with something of his own, for cover; Poirot was very sensitive to what other people thought]. 

It kind of amused Hastings a little, how Poirot was so upper crust, while he himself shied away from anyone treating him that way. He didn't even like spending money, or going to fancy events, half the time, but somehow going with a friend allowed him to enjoy it. 

It distracted him from all the things he didn't want to think about, and he could have fun. He was always pleased when he could get Poirot away from his stamp collection and into a party. Sometimes, when invited himself, he distinctly asked all about the details and the guest list--all with the goal of finding something or someone Poirot would be interested in. 

It was hard work, but it paid off. And indeed, there was progress on the home front, so to speak. One cold night, Poirot opened up a little. "I should say, mon ami, I have hesitated, I know. I had a previous moment... of--" but he broke off, and looked away from him. 

Hastings realized it had to be something like a serious attachment gone wrong, or some type of love affair. As much as one could imagine Poirot doing that sort of thing. Anything less than dignity didn't seem to suit him, and Hastings couldn't imagine him descended to it. 

"A lady?" he suggested; he could see he was going to have to make guesses of all this, and Poirot would sort of confirm or deny it. Well, actually, hmm! "Or someone else?" he added, trying to imply there could have been a man without actually saying it. He didn't want his friend to be offended. 

Which was ironic, because of what they had both admitted, but nonetheless he felt honor bound to phrase it in more of an obscure way.

Poirot looked faintly amused, but grimaced still. "Yes, a lady. Unfortunate, it had seemed very..." he shook his head. "Malheureusement, it was not to be."

Hastings kind of meditated on what to say. He had to be comforting without being dismissive of this past situation, but try to imply he was willing to wait for him to feel ready to move on from however this had broken his heart in the past. Really, he was just happy he hadn't mentioned that jewel thief he'd already tangled with.

He had thought Poirot was a little taken with her, but then he'd been off traveling for a few weeks, and when he'd returned, it was like night had turned into day, on the subject of her, at least. Whatever she'd done had to have been horrendous or something, but he hadn't inquired. 

"Do not change, mon ami," Poirot said suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts. Hastings looked over at him; he had taken hold of his wrist, but pushed back his dressing gown, touching his bare arm now. He kind of froze a little; it had been all well and good to want to move faster without actually confronting how it would feel in real life. 

His hand was dry, and soft and oddly warm on his arm. It felt weirdly intimate. "Stay being yourself," his friend instructed. "I see you, now and always. I do not lie to myself any longer." He didn't get the feeling Poirot was talking about him, per say, but he didn't ask. It sounded kind of metaphorical.

Poirot was like that, very poetic sometimes. When he asked after those types of things, his friend had a hard time truly explaining them. It was either existential, religious, emotional, or eschatological. By the end, Poirot was frustrated he didn't get it instinctively -- or 'feel' it, really, and he felt both like he needed to crack open an encyclopedia while wishing they could bond on that level. 

Though he had to admit, when Poirot tried to invite his thoughts on that deeper level, he resisted. It was illogical, but he never wanted to be laid bare again, to be talking about the things you think on when you are certain you are about to die. 

"Well, I don't think there's much chance of that not happening, Poirot," Hastings admitted. "I'm not exactly bursting at the seams with enough thoughts to make myself different. Or even better."

Poirot half-smiled a little, and looked down at the book he'd been reading before he came in to talk to him like usual. It was a Chandler story. "Sometimes, I have had a fear for you," he said, to Hastings' surprise. Before he could ask, he continued. "That a sharp lady will turn your head, and alors, there you will be. Off wherever she decides." He looked kind of sad at that, and Hastings had to protest. 

"Now wait a moment," he said. "I'm not going to argue that I'm not 'turned' by things that interest me--"

"Like the red hair, n'est-ce pas?" Poirot interjected, clearly try to inject a little levity into the situation, but he would not be dissuaded.

"--But lots of things interest me. Yes, red hair. Also, lady race car drivers if you must know," he said, a little embarassed, but he pressed on. This was important. Poirot really didn't seem to think he thought much of him; he implied it almost before. That just wouldn't do. "I like adventures the most; like how I travel. I love to see new things, new places. Even new people. I like you, I mean to say," he clarified, because it seemed that Poirot just wasn't getting it. 

"You're my big adventure," Hastings explained. "Going about with you on your cases, even just talking. I've never met a genius really; well, the few other ones weren't affable at all. But you--you're just... interesting. It's an adventure being with you." He trailed off, suddenly unable to go on. 

Poirot looked surprised, but then, he realized, he hadn't said any of the other stuff. "And obviously," he hastened to add, "you're someone... I respect; you're the epitome of morality, when you aren't not telling me things on cases, that is. You're a great man." Well, that seemed emotional enough, he thought. 

Poirot gave him a rather soft-ish seeming look. "Mon ami," he began, but that was all he said. Hastings was suddenly quite aware of his hand covering his wrist. He'd almost forgotten about it.

**Author's Note:**

> **FYI I take commissions, just message me : )


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